The Same Familiar Spark
by billyshezzascottholmes
Summary: Sherlock is at home with his son, Hamish, when he gets a phone call in the middle of the night saying his husband's been injured in the war.
1. Four in the Morning

"Father?" Hamish asked, his curly dark hair covering his face, as usual.

"Hm?" Sherlock grunted, not taking his eyes off his work.

"When is daddy coming home?"

Sherlock put his pen down and turned to his son. He had on a curious expression, one that was identical to John's. Sherlock didn't want to tell Hamish the truth. John wasn't going to be home for a long time. But, being Sherlock, he didn't really have a filter so he told him anyway. "Your other father is currently stationed in Afghanistan. He should be home again in about two years."

"But he's already been gone for a whole month! Is two years much longer than a month?" Hamish looked rather distressed. Sherlock knew it was going to get some getting used to. Hamish was used to Sherlock running off with Uncle Greg for a few days to work on a case, but John was always around for him. It broke even Sherlock's heart to know that John wouldn't be there to see Hamish off on his first day at school. "One month is one-twelfth of a year, and since he'll be gone for two years, one month is one-twenty-fourth of two years, so if you take the one month that has passed, multiply that by twenty-four, and that's how long daddy will be gone for." Sherlock tried to say this simply so his five-year-old could follow, but he spoke rather quickly. Hamish understood, though. Sherlock was sort of hoping he wouldn't.

"But _father!_ I want daddy home _now!_ Can't we just go get him?"

"I would if I could, Hamish, you know I would, but we're just going to have to get used to him not being around. We'll still speak with him on the phone, and we'll still talk to him over video, but he won't be with us again until either his two years are up, or he gets shot and killed, whichever comes first." Oops. That was one more deduction than he was expecting. Hamish, who liked to respond to bad news like John -normally -burst into tears and ran down the stairs to Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock slumped back in his chair and sighed. _Poor kid, _he thought, _it should have been me in Afghanistan, not John. He's so much better at this than I'll ever be._ He sat back up in his chair and picked up his pen, returning to work. Mrs Hudson would take care of Hamish. She always did, anyway.

**_Thirteen months, two weeks, and six days later_**

Sherlock's phone was buzzing on the nightstand. _Oh, good Lord, Greg, go to sleep. _Sherlock, who hadn't gotten a full night's sleep in about two months rolled over to his side of the bed (he'd been sleeping on John's side) and picked up his phone. It was Greg.

"Greg, it's four in the morning, what the hell do you want?"

"Don't try and tell me you were actually asleep. This is important, Sherlock!"

"Alise Fitchburg is innocent, you should let her go. It's rather difficult to murder a sheep with a shoe horn."

"That's not why I'm phoning! Sherlock.. Sherlock, it's John."

Sherlock sat straight up in his bed, Alise Fitchburg's murdered sheep suddenly out of his brain. "John? What do you mean 'John'? What's happened? Is he alright?"

"Well, that's the thing, Sherlock. I'm old mates with his Major, and he's just rung me to say John'd been shot."

"What?!"

"Sorry, should have led with this: he's okay."

"Jesus, Greg! What happened? Where is he?" Sherlock's mind was racing. He couldn't remember being this worried in his life.

"He's at Bart's. Molly's watching him. He came in by helicopter about an hour ago."

"Why the hell am I only hearing about this now?!"

"Mate, I've been calling you for five hours now, I figured you'd be up."

"Well I'm on my way."

"No, John said not to come. He wants you to stay with Hamish."

"What? Why?" Sherlock obviously loved Hamish, but someone had shot and hurt _his person_ and he intended to do something about it.

"Sherlock. He's got school in the morning!" _Oh, yeah. _Sherlock thought. Even his brain isn't fully functional at four in the morning.

"Well, school can wait." Sherlock said finally, "Hamish will be fine, besides Mrs Hudson can see him off."

"No, John specifically said not to let you come under any circumstances. You can come see him in the morning when you've sent Hamish off. John's also been adamant about not telling him what's happened. He wants to surprise him when he gets off school tomorrow, so I'm driving him over to the school at the end of the day."

"..."

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock, who had completely ignored Greg's voice, was pulling on his coat and wrapping his scarf around his neck.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Ten, if I can get a cab directly outside Baker Street, which always seems to have an abundance of cabs."

"Did you even listen to m-"

Sherlock hung up the phone and flung himself out of his bedroom door. He crept into Hamish's room to check he was still asleep. He was. Sherlock just watched him for a moment and decided to let him sleep. _Good lord, I've gone _**_soft_**_. _He thought, disgusted. He shut Hamish's door quietly and leapt down the stairs and hammered on Mrs Hudson's door.

Tiny Mrs Hudson poked her head out of the door after two minutes of insistent knocking. "What is it, Sherlock?" She looked more nervous than annoyed at being awoken in the middle of the night. It was almost as though she was used to it.

"John. Shot. Bart's. Going. Take Hamish to school. Gotta go. Call later." Sherlock ran out the front door of Baker Street and, lo and behold, and taxi was driving down the street at that exact moment. Imagine that.

Molly stared at Sherlock's face as his eyes moved around John's sleeping body. He wasn't checking him out so much as examining him. John had fallen asleep after the surgeon had stitched him up good and proper, but Sherlock was wide-eyed and concentrated. He'd been going up and down John's body for two hours.

"Um... Sherlock?" Molly said carefully.

"What." he said grumpily.

"Well... it's just... John's been asleep for a few hours now... and he's completely stable... and the bullet didn't go near enough to his heart to cause any kind of permanent damage... and Mrs Hudson called, she's worried about you both... and Hamish's teacher called because Hamish was upset he didn't see you this morning... and well-"

"Molly?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

"O-okay."

Sherlock resumed running his eyes across John's body, then finally pinpointed the scar. Well, he'd pinpointed it before, obviously, but in his mind he was going through each layer on John's body, trying to figure out exactly how far the bullet had gone and how much nerve damage it could cause. He'd reached the layer the bullet had been at, and he sighed thankfully and sat down in the chair next to John's bed. It wouldn't have gotten far enough to be a massive problem, just a temporary inconvenience.

Sherlock stretched and yawned and ruffled his hair. His perfect, perfect, dark, curly hair. The kind of hair a you would want to give birth in. Wait, what?

"You should try and get some rest."

"No. I've got to be here when he wakes up. I want to be the first thing he sees when he wakes up." Again, Sherlock proves he has no filter and tells Molly too much information. But, since she's Molly and would say the same thing, she instead says, "well, I'm having a bed brought in for you, and I'll keep an eye on him. If he looks like he's about to wake up, I'll wake you up first."

"Thank you, Molly, you're a real... you're... really... a..._snnoooooorreeeee_" and he fell asleep in the most cliche way possible.

**_Four hours later_**

"Sherlock? Sherlock! Wake up! John's stirring."

Sherlock sat up suddenly for the second time in twenty-four hours and immediately leapt to John's side. He grabbed his hand and held it in his own, staring and the man he loved most in the world, and waited. John's eyes flicked open and slowly shifted into focus. He looked at Sherlock, with that hedgehog-look he's so famous for, and widened his eyes.

"Sh-Sherlock?" John said, weakly.

"John! John, don't worry, I'm here, how are you feeling?" Sherlock felt very out of character.

"What... what time is it?" John asked.

Sherlock looked annoyed. "It's quarter past go fuck yourself, why is the time important?"

"Did you abandon Hamish to come see me?"

"No." Sherlock said, perhaps too suddenly.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! MOLLY, WHERE THE HELL IS GREG?! GO GET GREG!"

Sherlock leapt away from his husband the way he had leapt towards him a few lines ago. He wasn't quite used to seeing John angry. He didn't like it. Not at all. John basically went from baby hedgehog to release the fucking kraken in one second flat.

"John, please, be rational here, I couldn't-"

"YOU BASTARD! You decided that coming to see your perfectly okay husband in hospital at bloody four in the morning was more important than seeing your only son off on his first day of school?!"

"Of course not, John! Hamish wasn't alone, Mrs Hudson saw him off!"

"MRS HUDSON IS NOT HIS MOTHER."

"WELL NEITHER AM I."

"SHUT UP, SHERLOCK. YOU'RE NOT AS FUNNY AS YOU SEEM TO THINK."

"Well what would you have done?!"

"I would have learned that you were okay immediately after taking the call, spoken to you on the phone, and gone back to bed. Then I would have brought Hamish to school and come to the hospital _after._ Why is that a difficult concept?!"

"Well I'm sorry, John, but your life is more important to me than Hamish's first day of school. And nice to see you, too, by the way, it's only been an entire year."

John stared at Sherlock. "Sorry. I'm sorry. It was... probably the drugs talking. Come here. Please."

Sherlock approached John slowly, much in the way a cat would approach a new kind of dead animal it hadn't encountered before. John held out his hand and Sherlock held it gently.

"Thank you for coming. You're right, Hamish is fine. Let's just make this about us for now." John looked lovingly into Sherlock's glowing eyes, which looked more tired than they ever did before. He took in Sherlock's full appearance, and realized he was wearing the same damn purple shirt he was wearing on the day John left for Afghanistan. Sherlock sat down and stared lovingly back at John's equally tired eyes.

"It's good to see you, John." Sherlock's voice suddenly gruff and deep.

"It's always good to see me, Sherlock." John replied. Sherlock rolled his eyes. John let out a small giggle. He was always famous for laughing at his own jokes. Sherlock smiled fondly and leaned down towards his husband. He pressed his lips against John's for the first time in fourteen months. He felt the same thing he felt the first time they kissed all those years ago. That same, familiar tingling. That same, familiar spark.


	2. Our Time Alone

Chapter Two: Our Alone Time

**_Two years later_**

John hit the snooze button on the alarm clock for the third time, then sat up. He always hit the snooze button so Sherlock would be forced to get up and turn it off. John threw his legs off the bed and let them dangle. He just sat there for a while. Thinking. He turned back and looked at Sherlock, who was lying on his back, his mouth hanging open slightly. Drool was dripping out of the side of his mouth. John smiled to himself, picked up a tissue, and wiped the saliva away. Even the World's Only Consulting Detective drools in his sleep.

John stood up and stretched and yawned. He moved across the room to the closet door and pulled out his favorite green shirt. He looked at it for a moment before putting it back in the closet, then turned back to Sherlock and stared at the sleeping detective like a puppy staring at a... well... like a puppy staring at anything. After a few moments of thought-collecting, John walked out of the room to wake Hamish for school.

"Hi, Sarah, it's John."

"Hi, John, how are you?"

"I'm not bad, but I've called to say I can't come into work this morning."

"Oh?"

"Yeah... Sherlock and I, well, we've been having some troubles... It hasn't been going well at all. We keep arguing about the most menial things, from what Hamish is wearing to what we're having for dinner. It's getting ridiculous. I don't think he sees it, though. I want to spend today trying to sort everything out with him."

"Oh dear. Well, I'll let you off this time, John, but I definitely need you in tomorrow."

"Okay, that's fine. Thanks, Sarah. I'll talk to you soon."

"Alright, John. I hope everything's alright. Have a good day."

John hung up the phone and poured Hamish a bowl of cornflakes. He heard the alarm in the bedroom chime for a fourth time, a soft groan, and the sound of an alarm clock being flung into a wall. John rolled his eyes, then watched as Sherlock dragged himself out of their bedroom into the kitchen. He slipped into his satin dressing gown, then collapsed on a chair, and put his head on the table. John smiled to himself again and put a mug of coffee - black, two sugars - in front of Sherlock's shaggy black head of hair.

"Good morning, sunshine." John said cheerily. He leaned down and gave his husband a kiss on the top of his head. Sherlock responded with the kind of grunt you'd hear from a teenage boy who had just been told to have a shower. John rolled his eyes again.

"So... Sherlock... I've been... well... I'm not sure if... um... I've been thinki-" John started, before Hamish burst through the door of the kitchen. He was all dressed for school. His hair was a disaster but at least he was presentable. He hopped into his chair and watched John pour milk into his bowl of cornflakes.

"Good morning, Father! Good morning, Daddy!"

"Hello, Hamish," Sherlock grunted, his head still glued to the table's surface. Hamish picked up his spoon, excitedly ate his breakfast, choked on a bit of cornflake, grabbed his bag, gave a quick hug to John on his way out, and went off to school.

About an hour and half later, after the usual morning discussions over the weather and other various smalltalk, John and Sherlock got dressed. John, in his favorite green shirt tucked into a pair of dark jeans, and Sherlock in his famous purple shirt tucked into a pair of black trousers. Sherlock then took up his usual position -hands pressed together, finger tips at the chin- on his armchair by the fireplace. He closed his eyes. John watched him do this. Now that he'd thought about it, he wasn't _really_ sure what Sherlock did when John was at work. He'd just figured he went off with Greg or he wandered into a crime scene or something, but John had told Greg not to phone today. John took his place in the armchair opposite Sherlock, not taking his eyes off him. He looked rather peaceful... which was strange in itself. John cleared his throat, and Sherlock's eyes popped open.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, not changing his position.

"Well, to start off, I happen to live here as a matter of fact." John replied.

"Yes, but why aren't you at work?"

John paused. Sherlock was _Sherlock_. Everything he did was so _Sherlock_. It was never easy confessing his feelings to him, even after ten years of marriage and fifteen years of knowing each other. "I've missed you," he said finally.

"Impossible." Sherlock said, "we live together. You can't miss me, we see each other everyday. We sleep in the same bed every night."

"Yeah, but... well... all of our conversations recently have been about Hamish, and I thought it would... be... nice... to have... our... alone... time. Again. I've... missed you." _Smooth,_ he thought. He couldn't tell anyone why he was still so nervous about talking to Sherlock like this. _Fifteen years,_ he kept reminding himself, _fifteen years._

Sherlock looked at John up and down, keeping his mouth shut. John felt his husband's stare. That _was_ something he was used to. He could feel it. He was being deduced. Sometimes he tried to change Sherlock's deductions. This time he just let him do his thing.

Finally, Sherlock put his hands on the arms of his chair, pushed, and stood up. He walked towards John slowly, and John felt the same fuzzy feeling in his stomach he had felt the day they met. Or rather, the day he fell in love. The day they met, John deduced Sherlock to be an arsehole and avoided him. They day they fell in love, well...

"I've missed you, too." Sherlock said. Very out of character. He held out his hand, John grabbed it, and Sherlock lifted him out of his chair. He pulled John into his arms. John giggled. It was a rather, well, _girly_ giggle. Meaning he actually sounded like he had the voice that would normally be considered a female-sounding voice. Just to be politically correct. This was unusual.

Sherlock held John, with his hands linked at John's lower back, John's hands linked at the back of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock pulled John closer, so he could rest his chin on John's head. They stood there. Swaying. Hugging tightly, neither wanting to let go.

John had his ear pressed against Sherlock's chest to hear his heartbeat. He loved doing this. It reminded him that Sherlock was still human. It reminded him of why he fell in love. Sherlock was _his person_. His favorite person. Sherlock and Hamish were the only ones who mattered to John in that moment. Sherlock, his best friend and the love of his life. Sherlock.

He was so in love. _So_ in love. He wanted this to go on forever. There was no music playing, just the two of them swaying together in 221B's living room. Then there was humming. Sherlock was humming Beethoven. _This_, John thought, _is why I married him._ John held him tighter still, hugging him, the entirety of their bodies just pressed together as though someone was trying to morph them into one very odd looking Sherlock-John hybrid. Sherlock's quiet humming continued, and John listened without saying a word. Just listening to Sherlock's voice.

Suddenly John heard Sherlock's heartbeat speed up. He loosened his grip on him, and tried to stay calm, but he knew what was happening. You see, John loved Sherlock, and told him very often, every chance he got. They'd been a couple for thirteen years, married for ten, and John had lost count how many times he said he loved Sherlock. But Sherlock was different. He had never said it. John could tell when he wanted to, though. His pulse would quicken, his feet would shuffle, his palms would sweat. John knew what it meant. He never said anything aloud, but he knew. Sherlock knew that he knew. But to be fair, what doesn't Sherlock know? About anyone? Sherlock tried to breathe normally again, but found it difficult. To try and help, John stood on his toes, and slowly leaned towards Sherlock for the perfect collision. His lips were warm. John felt him relax, and felt his hand on his back, running up and down slowly. John pulled away, and looked at this man. This man who was still a mystery to him.

"I love you, so much, Sherlock."

"That is a grossly sentimental thing to say, John."

"Yes, I know, but it's true. I hope you know that."

Sherlock looked at John with more love in his eyes than anyone knew what to do with. After a few moments of staring, he finally said, "I do."

John pressed his lips against Sherlock's again, and tightened his grip on him once more. His arms wrapped more firmly around John, and lifted him slightly off his feet, so he toes were still touching the ground. John moved his head steadily, every movement intentional, every breath taken at the correct second. Sherlock put John back on the ground, and John took a step backwards, not removing his mouth from his husband's. They walked together to the sofa, their lips glued together. John laid Sherlock down on the sofa, then laid on top of him, kissing him slowly, passionately, with as much love and affection as he could muster. Sherlock responded with equal enthusiasm, running one hand down John's back, the other through John's hair. John held Sherlock's face still, not wanting to make a wrong move. This could go on forever.

Of course, it didn't. Mrs Hudson knocked on the door, and whispered _"hoo, hoo!". _John was less than pleased with her at this point, but he decided to ignore her and continued showing his husband how much he loved him. But, Mrs Hudson, being the ultimate cock block she is, opened the door, holding a tray of tea and biscuits. Ignoring her was becoming more difficult. John pulled his mouth away from Sherlock's, and glared at Mrs Hudson, who was just standing there fangirling. No one loved John and Sherlock's relationship more than Mrs Hudson.

"Is there something we can do for you, Mrs H?" John asked, refusing to remove himself from on top of Sherlock.

"Oh... oh no, oh dear," Mrs Hudson stammered, she looked very flustered. She obviously hadn't intended to walk in on them like this. "I... sorry, John... I... oh, I'll let you get back to it!" She turned red and walked out. Once she'd closed the door, John could hear her giggling like a child.

"Well, that killed the mood." John said, disappointed. And he was just getting into it. You know. _Into it._

"Not necessarily. Why don't we go out?" Sherlock said suddenly.

"Out? We never go out! Where would we go?" John looked at Sherlock. Then he suddenly became aware that this conversation was happening while he was lying on top of Sherlock, with his hands pressed against the sofa, so he was basically in the position to do a push up, but in the way a seal might do a push up. A seal that was about to get laid for the first time in months. A GAY seal who was about to get laid for the first time in months. Wait, where was I?

John stood up off the sofa and Sherlock sat up straight and ruffled his hair. "So? Are we going out then?" Sherlock looked up at John, which wasn't something he did very often. John stepped in front of Sherlock and took some of his hair into his hands. "I don't really fancy going out. I fancy sending Mrs Hudson out. Or locking our door for a change. We live in London. You'd think we'd lock our flat." John was really frustrated now.

"No, it's alright. She's just gone out. I heard the door. Probably gone to see Mrs Turner next door. We really do need to find her a hobby."

"Well... what do you want to do now she's gone?"

"Dunno. Film? James Bond?"

"No, you always spoil films."

"How?"

"You know how, you always tell me what's going to happen twenty minutes before it happens!"

"I'm just pointing out what's obvious."

"Obvious to you, maybe."

"John, do we really ne-" and they were interrupted once again, this time by John's mobile ringing.

"Oh, for God's... hello?" John said annoyed, picking up his phone. Sherlock smiled stupidly at John's frustration. John looked back at Sherlock, only half-listening to what Molly had to say on the other end of the phone line, focusing primarily on Sherlock's goofy smile. This was all John wanted to care about at that moment. He just wanted to be with Sherlock, to shut out the rest of the world. He told Molly he had to go, he turned off his mobile, he turned off Sherlock's mobile, he locked the door, closed the drapes, and turned back to Sherlock, who had been watching from the sofa. He grinned goofily again, and John smiled back fondly. He walked over to Sherlock, and sat on his leg. He cupped Sherlock's face in his hands and kissed him again and again. This was _their_ time. They weren't going to be bothered by Mrs Hudson, or Molly, or anyone else in the outside world who might stare at them and judge them.

Hours passed.

In fact... Lots of hours passed...

Too many hours...

_Way_ too many hours...

"Sherlock..." John started, glancing at his husband, "Sherlock, where's Hamish?"


	3. We'll Be Fine, I Promise

John looked at his watch, something he had avoided doing all day.

19:45.

Shit.

Sherlock appeared from the bedroom, re-buttoning his shirt, and watched John frantically run around the flat looking for their mobiles, which, you might recall, he had turned off so they wouldn't be bothered. Finally finding his own, John switched it on and watched the usual greeting message. The phone took a few seconds to load, then...

_Bing!_

_Bing!_

_Bing!_

_Bing!_

_Bing!_

_Bing!_

_Bing!_

Seven missed calls. The first one came in at around four, the others came in progressively for the hours that followed. Three of them were from Molly, two from Lestrade, and... _oh, shit. _John stared at his phone. He had never been more anxious, nervous, and terrified in his entire life. This was a deduction even John could make: two missed calls from St. Bart's hospital and a son he hadn't seen all day, even though he was meant to be home hours ago, meant something bad.

John went into full-on panic mode. He was conflicted. He needed to phone and find out what was the matter, but he was terrified of what he would find on the other end of the call. He then noticed that both Molly and Lestrade left voice messages. He called his voicemail and heard Lestrade's first.

_"John! Oh, for God's sake pick up your fucking phone! I know you said not to call today, but Hamish.. it's Hamish, you've gotta get to Bart's _**_now_**_. Molly's not sure what's going on, she's tried calling both you and Sherlock and neither of you have answered... You've gotta get down here, we barely know what's happened, they won't let me in because I'm not technically family. Apparently being Godfather doesn't count for anything. GET TO BART'S. NOW."_

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit. SHIT. Why did he need to get to Bart's?! What's happened to Hamish?!

"SHERLOCK!" John yelled, tears were forming in his eyes now. Sherlock flew into the sitting room, his own mobile pressed to his ear, his eyes wide, his forehead sweating.

_Shit!_

Sherlock pulled the phone away from his ear and put it on speaker.

It was Molly.

_"...and Hamish isn't responding, they're keeping me nearby, mostly to comfort Greg, who's having a panic attack, you and John have got to get down here! He needs his daddies!"_

Sherlock clicked his phone off, indicating there were no more messages. John had never seen him so terrified. Sherlock had had guns pulled to his head, bombs strapped to his chest, a life _surrounded_ by dead bodies, and never once did John see Sherlock this anxious or this horrified.

John on the other hand, well, his military skills had kicked in. He was in battle mode. He was nervous, he had never been so scared or worried in his life, but he knew he had to remain calm. He clicked on the voicemail from Molly on his phone and put it on speaker. This one was from about two hours ago.

_"John? It's Molly. Where have you been? Are you alright? We need you two here. We've got... things to discuss. They... they did... well, I'd rather talk to you in person. Please come as soon as you get this."_

John hung up his phone and looked at Sherlock, whose eyes were just _swimming_ in salty tears. John took a deep breath, grabbed Sherlock's hand, picked up his keys, and ran out the door, Sherlock at his heels. They hailed a taxi, and climbed in the back seat. It was a ten minute drive. He glanced back at his phone. He scrolled through his contacts until he found Lestrade's number, and dialed.

_"John! Thank God, oh my God, where are you? Oh God." _Lestrade's voice was faint and strained and positively desperate. It sounded like he had had a much more difficult day than John.

"We're on our way, Greg." John said into his phone. His voice was hoarse.

_"John... is Sherlock with you?"_

"Yes."

_"Is he... he's not... did you hear the message Molly left him?"_

"I, well... I heard the end. Why?" John's voice trembled.

_"Well... uh... you know what, why don't we just wait until you get here?"_

"No, you've got to tell me now, Sherlock hasn't said a word..." He looked at his husband, who was looking out the window of the cab, as though this would somehow make it go faster. He had tears leaking out of the sides of his eyes, and his face was blotchy. John stretched out his free hand and laid it on Sherlock's, who held John's hand tightly, as if his life depended on it.

_"You'll be here soon. I'm gonna hang up now. See you in a bit." _A soft click echoed from John's mobile as Lestrade's voice disappeared.

Sherlock turned to look at John, and John avoided eye contact. Instead, he pulled Sherlock's head toward his own, and planted a kiss on his forehead.

"I know you know what happened, but I don't. They didn't tell me, and I don't want you to have to tell me, either. But whatever it is, we'll get through this. We'll be fine. I promise."

Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh. "I love you, John." Sherlock's voice was raspy and quiet, and he'd said it staring at their hands instead of John. But he'd still said it.

"I know." John replied, forcing a smile. "And I'll always love you back." John watched as tear after tear dripped down Sherlock's face, and he felt a lump rise in his throat as he felt tears form. Sherlock tilted his head up and stared into the cool blue that were John's eyes. John stared back at the redness and swelling in Sherlock's eyes and took a deep, shaky breath.

The cab pulled up outside the doors to Bart's Accident and Emergency center. John paid the cabbie and he and Sherlock stepped onto the cool pavement. John glanced at his watch again. 20:10. He grabbed his partner's hand once more, took another breath, and pushed the doors open.

As soon as they had stepped in, John immediately saw who he needed to see. Molly was standing by reception, writing on a stack of papers. She looked up, saw John, dropped her pen, sprinted across the room, and threw her arms around John. She was cold and shaking.

"Molly, you have to tell me what's been going on, no one has said anything!" John was getting exasperated now. Molly pulled away from John, and John noticed that her eyes were red and swollen, just as Sherlock's were.

"John," she started, her voice already breaking, "you don't know what you've missed. I'm not the one to tell you. I know I told Sherlock, but I didn't want to. Greg made me phone. Just come with me, please." With a quick glance at Sherlock, who was avoiding her eyes' stare, she spun around and walked quickly down the hallway to the left.

John made to follow, but as Sherlock wasn't moving and he was still holding his hand, this proved rather difficult.

"Come on, then." John said, tugging Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock remained rooted to his spot. He had stopped crying, but he was looking at his feet.

"Sherlock, every moment we stand here, I get more and more and more worried and... well... _scared_. I haven't a clue what happened. But I need to know. So I'm going to find out. Please come when you're ready." He dropped Sherlock's hand, kissed him on the cheek, and followed Molly down the hall. She was standing next to a door, and Greg was standing with her. When he saw John, he flung his arms around him and sobbed into his shoulder.

"John, oh God, John. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I don't know what to say."

John patted Greg's back and said "It's okay, Greg. Just let me see my son."

Greg and Molly looked at each other anxiously. "John, you might want to listen to us, first." Molly said. John had no idea what to expect. Obviously it was something bad.

"Just tell me. Please." John felt heat radiating from his eyes.

Lestrade took a deep breath.

"I'm just going to cut to the chase. Hamish... was... well. He was walking home from school with some of his mates, and... well this is London, stuff like this happens all the time." John's stomach jolted. "But he was... he didn't see where he was going and he walked out into the street." Shit. "There was a car there. The driver didn't see Hamish, he had been behind a tree, and he wasn't watching where he was walking. And... he was hit. Pretty badly." The feeling disappeared from John's legs. He wasn't even comprehending what he was being told. "The driver immediately got out and dialed 999, and he's actually still here somewhere, he wanted to make sure Hamish was okay. When Sally and I got there, they were loading him into the ambulance. I got in with them saying I was his Godfather, and called you from the ambulance. When you didn't answer, I called Sherlock. He didn't answer, either. So I phoned Molly."

John didn't look away from Lestrade's face. He didn't really _look_ anywhere. He just... stood. _Hamish has been hit by a car._ He thought, _Hamish, my son, Hamish, has been hit. By a car. _For some reason the thoughts weren't registering in his brain. They were just words.

"I need to see my son." He said finally, after several seconds of silence. His voice was weak. It shook. It was barely there. Greg stepped back to open the door for John, and they all stepped inside.


	4. A Broken Boy, A Broken Man

Sherlock remained unmoving from his spot in the reception area of A&E. He had shifted his eyes from his feet to the door of Hamish's room, just in time to see John, Lestrade, and Molly walking in and closing the door behind them._ This is my fault._ Sherlock thought, _I should have just been better to John. We would have gotten here in time. Now it might be too late._ There wasn't much logic in this thought, but he couldn't help but feel responsible. What was worse was he had barely spoken to Hamish since John was let out of hospital. It was clear to him that Hamish liked John better. And who could blame him?

His eyes were still on the door, and he saw Molly reappear in the hallway. She closed the door gently and walked toward Sherlock.

"You alright?" She asked tentatively.

Sherlock tried to answer, he really did. But nothing came out. There was just a massive lump in his throat, and he feared dislodging it and crying in front of Molly.

"Do you want to see him?"

He nodded. She took his hand in her own, and held it tightly. Sherlock took a deep shaky breath and willed his legs to move. They were jelly. They weren't going anywhere.

"Sherlock, you don't have to go in. You can go sit down, I want you to be okay."

He still couldn't reply. He just shook his head, and took slow steps to the door, with Molly holding his hand and stroking his thumb to comfort him. They made their way to the door of Hamish's room slowly, slowly, slowly... until they were standing in front of it. The door had a narrow window, but Sherlock had returned to staring at his feet to avoid looking inside.

"Ready?"

"Mmm." Sherlock grunted in response. That was all he could manage out of fear of breaking down again.

Molly slowly pushed the door open, and she and Sherlock stepped inside.

John was sitting on a chair next to the bed, his hand cupped over Hamish's. Greg was standing behind him with his hand on John's shoulder. Tears fell down both of their faces. Sherlock made eye contact with Greg, who abandoned his post behind John and gave Sherlock the biggest hug he could muster. Sherlock was still trying not to look at Hamish. He knew generally what to be prepared for, he had done extensive research on this topic, being hit by vehicles. It was useful information for a detective. But he never wanted to use it like this. If he looked at Hamish, he'd know the angle at which he was hit, he'd know the extent of his injuries, and he'd be able to picture the entire thing in his head. He didn't want that.

He finally looked. Hamish's black hair was covering part of his face, as usual. He had a massive gash across his cheek, which had been stitched up. He had a cut lip, and various scrapes and scratches around his face. Thankfully, no neck brace, which to Sherlock meant that his injuries couldn't be that bad. Sherlock's eyes moved down his son's body to his chest. There were wires attached, and an IV drip hanging out of his left arm. On his right arm there was a thick white plaster cast, which went from the end of his thumb to his armpit. On his left hand he had two small finger braces, one on his ring finger, and one on his pinky finger. Moving further down, he had another plaster cast on his right leg, this one going from his knee down to his toes. His other leg was badly scraped, but had been cleaned, so it didn't look too bad. As for Hamish himself, he wasn't moving or showing any signs of being conscious. He was just there. Sherlock could now imagine exactly what happened. He watched Hamish's limp body fly across the street, in his mind, over and over and over. And his legs gave way.

He couldn't keep himself together. He was sitting on the floor at Greg's feet, yelling, crying, shaking. This was too much. This was why Sherlock never got attached to people. This happens, this always happens. He couldn't hear anything over his own sobs, but he felt John's hands press against his shoulders as he sat on the floor next to him. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's whole body, hugged him tightly, then helped Sherlock to his feet.

"Come on." John said quietly. He didn't sound like John anymore.

He helped Sherlock out the door where they sat on the chairs outside Hamish's room. Once Sherlock had sat down, he tried to compose himself. He found this very difficult. John took the seat next to him, and put his arm around his husband. Sherlock leaned over and put his head on John's shoulder, as more and more tears fell down his cheeks. John held out his free hand and wrapped it around Sherlock's.

"I wish I knew what to say." John said quietly, his cheek resting in Sherlock's shaggy black hair. His voice was gruff and barren.

Sherlock couldn't answer. He didn't want to cry anymore, but he couldn't stop. He wanted a rewind. He wanted a reset button. After a few moments of composure, his tears finally subsiding slightly, he felt a kiss on the top of his head. John held his lips on Sherlock's crown for a few seconds, before moving back, and resuming position, though slightly closer together. Sherlock's tears streamed even more.

Sherlock slammed the door of 221 B Baker Street behind him as he followed John up the stairs. He was amazed at how calm John managed to be. Sherlock was usually the calm one while John was normally the one kicking chairs over and swearing at people. Sherlock guessed that John knew how to handle pain and loss and death from working in a hospital and being in the army. Sherlock had never suffered loss on this scale. Hamish wasn't dead, but he was deeply in a coma.

When Sherlock reached the top of the stairs, he just walked straight into the bedroom, slammed the door shut, kicking every chair and every table on the way.

He laid down on the bed and buried his head into a pillow. He wasn't going to cry again. He just laid there, unmoving and solitary. He was grateful John didn't try to intervene, but, at the same time, he wanted him there. He found it difficult to believe that just five short hours ago, he and John had been making up for lost time, enjoying themselves more than they had done in months, right where he now lay. The very thought of that made him feel sick. He got angry with himself for even allowing happy thoughts in. He rolled off the bed, opened the drawer in his bedside table, and pulled out three nicotine patches. He put them on his arm, and resumed his position.

An hour later, after Sherlock contemplated his three patch problem, there was a small knock on the door. John came in, not saying anything, holding a tray of tea. He set it down on top of the chest of drawers, then crossed the room to the bed and sat down next to Sherlock. Sherlock stayed where he was. John pulled his legs onto the bed and huddled around Sherlock, who responded by pulling his face out of the pillow and laying on his side instead.

"You alright?" John said, his voice finally returning to normal. Slightly.

"No." Sherlock said. It was the first proper word he'd managed to get out since the cab ride to Bart's, where he told John that he loved him for the first time.

"No. Nor am I." John looked at Sherlock. Not in any particular kind of way, he just looked at him. Sherlock's eyes burned from the crying of the day, and he had a massive headache. He looked back at John and tried to think of what to say. There was nothing to say.

John pushed the dark curls out of Sherlock's face and laid his hand on his cheek. Sherlock breathed in and felt the kind of warm feeling that happens when one is particularly happy. Sherlock wasn't happy. Sherlock was home. He closed his eyes, and just felt John's presence, felt his warmth, felt _him_. They both slowly drifted off to sleep, and the tea went forgotten.


	5. The Crack in the Dam

A few days passed, and still no signs of movement from Hamish. They had gone back to Baker Street for much of their time, though they visited Hamish for at least an hour every day. There wasn't terribly much to do there, except be told they must keep holding on and keep hoping. John would straighten Hamish's pillows and blankets and comb his hair, read him stories, while Sherlock would sit in the arm chair, looking out the window, until John decided it was time to leave.

The day after the accident, John phoned everyone he could think of, Sarah from the surgery, Sherlock's parents, Harry, Mycroft, Mike, everyone, to tell them what had happened and to request that the two men be left alone while they get back on track. Everyone was terribly sympathetic, though none knew what to say.

Mrs Hudson had taken to only being in the flat when delivering condolences from family and friends, or to bring up a pot of tea from time to time. Even she got the hint that they needed their space for a while. John appreciated this. He didn't want anyone to make a fuss. He was pretty much okay for the most part; he knew Hamish was a strong boy and he would most likely pull through. Maybe that was the doctor in him talking. Maybe it was the father. Who knows?

Sherlock was the opposite. He was hardly ever out of Hamish's bedroom. He never did anything in there, he just sat there, breathing it in. Sometimes John would go in to keep him company, but he'd end up watching as Sherlock sat on the floor, fiddling with a broken toy, or flicking through an old coloring book. Hamish always drew within the lines.

They hardly spoke anymore. It wasn't because they were particularly angry with each other, they just didn't know what to say. The only real time they spoke was when they were discussing food or bills. The only time they came in real contact was when John would find Sherlock broken down in the sitting room. It was strange seeing the detective cry, but John let him let it out. He'd just sit on the sofa and Sherlock would lay on John's lap, crying it out until he felt he could move again. John never pressured him, never tried to make him feel better, and certainly never mentioned Hamish's name. He just let him cry it out. That was all he could do.

A month later, John was back at work at the surgery. He only went back because he needed to think about something else for a change. He left Sherlock at home, but always had Mrs Hudson, Molly, and Greg swapping turns to look after him. He didn't expect them to have to do much, they just sat in the kitchen and watched him. If he moved to Hamish's room, they'd sit on the bed and watch him. Just to make sure he didn't do anything stupid. With his history with drugs, John couldn't be too careful.

Finally, one day, he came home from work and found that Sherlock was the only one in. There was a note on Mrs Hudson's door saying she'd gone out to buy milk for 221B, but it wasn't her turn, it was Greg's. John ran up the stairs and found Sherlock laying on the sofa, apparently asleep. He was wearing his shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and John saw he had on two nicotine patches. Okay, good, so no drugs then. John phoned Greg from the kitchen, hoping to have a shout. He felt he deserved one.

_"Detective Inspector Lestrade."_

"Greg, it's John, where the hell are you?! You're meant to be watching Sherlock!"

_"John! Blimey, I meant to call you, sorry mate, I was called out for a case."_

"A c- a _case?!_ You left Sherlock Holmes, ex-drug addict at home by himself while he's incredibly depressed for a bloody _case?!_"

_"I'm sorry, John! I didn't have a choice! I shouted to Mrs Hudson before I left, but I take it she didn't hear me. I've only been gone about half an hour, I knew you'd be back soon!"_

"One, Mrs Hudson's not here, she's gone out. Two, do you know how much he could have done in half an hour?!"

_"I know, I know, I'm sorry!"_

"What was he doing when you left?"

_"He was messing about with something on his arm, I couldn't see what it was... shit."_

"GREG! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK IT WAS?!"

_"Look, John, I assumed it was a nicotine patch, I'm sorry!"_

John took a deep breath and bit his knuckle. He felt his eyes burn with new tears and he pressed the phone harder to his ear.

"It's alright, Greg. It might have been a nicotine patch. I'm sorry I shouted. I'll speak to you later." He hung up the phone before Greg could try to defend himself again, and put it on the table calmly. Sherlock entered the room slowly, and stared at John.

"Everything alright?" He asked calmly.

John tried to loosen his expression, make himself look less frightening.

"Fine, everything's fine." He said rather harsher than he'd intended.

"John, I-"

"I said it's FINE, Sherlock!" John's voice was raising. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

Sherlock watched his husband carefully.

"John, please, just talk to me, I know there's something wrong, and I sense it's something I've done, and-"

"YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY VICTIM HERE, SHERLOCK HOLMES." John bellowed, his face was red and his hands were in fists at his side. His whole body was shaking and he felt as though fire was rising from the pit of his stomach.

Sherlock took a step back. "John, tell me, what do you need?"

"I NEED YOU TO STOP BEING SO FUCKING DEPRESSED. I NEED GREG TO LEARN WHAT IT MEANS TO LOOK AFTER SOMEONE. I NEED MRS HUDSON TO LEAVE US ALONE. I FUCKING NEED HAMISH TO WAKE UP." John's harsh voice turned into absolute mush at that last word. He collapsed on the floor, in the same position Sherlock had been in on that first night. He was crying and sobbing and felt as though everything in his world had come crashing down all at once. Hamish's accident was a huge crack in John's dam, and his phone call with Greg was the thing that caused the water to come gushing through.

Sherlock was uncannily kind and helpful over the next few days. He woke up extra early to make John breakfast in bed, he washed and folded all the laundry, he even cleaned out the experiments which had been festering in the kitchen for months. John had noticed all this of course, and decided to enjoy it while he could, he knew it wouldn't last long.

He never liked shouting at Sherlock, but when he did he always had good reason to. This time, he never felt worse about it. He didn't know how to make it up to him, while Sherlock was doing everything that needed to be done to make it up to _John_. He decided it was time Sherlock got out of the flat for a reason other than to visit Hamish. So one day, when Sherlock had taken a break from cleaning to visit Hamish's room, John phoned Greg, whom he hadn't spoken to since he left Sherlock alone.

_"Detective Inspector Lestrade"_

"It's John."

_"Oh. Hello, John. H-how are you? And uh, was uh, Sherlock okay"_

"I'm... I'm alright, thank you. And Sherlock, he's uh... well, he's being extremely helpful, and it's kind of weird, though not unappreciated..."

_"Hah... yeah, I suppose... So... he's alright, then?"_

"Yeah, yeah, for the most part. Erm... that's actually why I've called. Um, well, long story short, I think he needs to get out of the flat for a while. He's generally been rather soppy and, while that is to be understood, he can't wallow, it's not going to change the situation. So I wonder if you could call him out on a case sometime soon. You know, nothing too crazy, just a casual... uh... murder... or something."

_"Actually, yeah, I think I can. I haven't... uh... been managing very well. Obviously I didn't want to intrude on a fresh wound, but, I mean, if you think he's up for it..."_

"He's Sherlock, I don't think he'll ever not be ready for a murder."

The next day, as suspected, Sherlock's mobile rang at about 9:00, while he was making John's breakfast. John watched from the kitchen table as Sherlock answered it.

"Sherlock Holmes."

_"Hi, it-it-it's Greg. H-how are you?"_

"I don't know who Greg is. I think you may have the wrong number."

_"It's... it's Lestrade."_

"Oh, Lestrade. I'm okay. Why have you called?"

_"Well, there's this uh... this case. And I know you might not want to join me, but I could really use your help. And I take it you haven't really left the flat much... so I thought you might... you know... want a break."_

Sherlock didn't answer, he just turned to look at John with the phone pressed to his ear. John smiled at him and nodded, and Sherlock turned back so he was facing the sink.

"Uh... Well, what is it?"

John could only sort of hear Greg's voice at this point, but he decided it seemed to be working. He stood up and poured himself some coffee from the pot Sherlock had just made and sat back down. A few minutes later, Sherlock hung up the phone and turned to John.

"Case?" John asked, feeling rather pleased with himself.

"Why did you do that?" Sherlock asked, sitting down next to his husband.

"Do what?"

"You know what. I don't want to go on a case, I don't deserve to go on a case, I've been a prat, and you know it."

"And I've been insensitive. Look, all I wanted is for you to go out, with Greg, and do something I know you enjoy doing for a change, alright? You haven't been on a case in _weeks_, and, darling, I really do understand why you want to help out so much around here, but cleaning and re-cleaning and endless piles of bacon and eggs won't do anything to help Hamish. And you know that, don't you?"

Sherlock looked mildly offended at being spoken to like this, but he nodded subtly. "So... You don't mind if I go on a case with Lestrade for the day?"

"Oh course not," John said, reaching out to place a hand on his husband's. "You have been beating yourself up for something you can't do anything about, and you need to take some time off. Go and have fun. But keep your mobile handy so I can ring you if anything happens. Alright?"

Sherlock picked up John's hand and stood up, so John would stand up too. He wrapped his arms around John's torso, and John hugged him around his neck. John felt a spark in his stomach, a spark of life, and he held his husband close. Then he realized that was the first proper physical contact they'd had in ages, one where neither of them was crying. He held on tighter. Sherlock loosened his grip and pulled away slightly too look at John. John tilted his head up, and Sherlock leaned down and brought their lips together. It was warm, and comforting, and perfect. After several moments of their lips and tongues lingering together, John pulled back, and gave the first genuine smile he'd given in months. Sherlock returned the look with the tiniest trace of what could possibly have been maybe mistaken as half of a medium-well produced smile. John pulled his arms away, and gave Sherlock a gesture meaning he should go now, and ten minutes later, Sherlock was pulling on his long overcoat, giving John a kiss on the head to say goodbye, and he flew out the front door.

John sat down in front of the fire place and pulled out his phone to send a quick text to Greg.

_He's on his way. Thank you. -JW_


End file.
